#conference chairs online

[offurno342]

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[highmoon24]

Office furniture in dubai

[stepearly]

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

Professor, I didn’t cheat.

Summary: reader is a top student at her university. always exceeding in her courses and even taking the liberty to do study groups with other students to help them. Professor Kennedy finds out that the reader and this other student have the same thesis for an upcoming paper. What happens when he confronts y/n after class?

Warning: fem reader. Professor Leon. make out. breast play. creampie. age gap. CONSENTED.

a/n: I HATE my political class. I don’t understand anything😭 I was put in a group full of of guys and I deadass felt so out of place

(pt.1) (pt.2)

You always took notes during his lectures. You always made sure to jot down every single detail, even if it was something that you could search online. Your studies were important to you. You wanted to be the best so you strived for academic success. Many students valued your ambitious character but others were jealous.

Today’s lecture was more of an exam day. You always aced your tests, given that you studied the night before. You were one of the first students to finish their exam. You and the girl next to you finished at the same time and walked up to Leon’s desk to turn it in. You took your backpack with you as you laid the exam flat on his wooden desk. He gave you a curt nod, and then one to the other girl.

You both walked out of the classroom without any issues.

Until Leon emailed you that he wanted to have a private conference with you.

You panicked. What could have possibly have gone wrong? Or maybe he knew of an opportunity that you could take, like a job or a scholarship you should apply. Most professors did that, they helped their best students.

So when you walked to his office Monday morning, your gut feeling sank as you noticed the look on his face. It was a mixture of disappointment and disapproval. He motioned for you to step up to his desk, “Y/n, glad you’re here. Please, take a seat.” He sat down on his desk chair while you took one of the chair in front of his desk.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here,” He began as he shuffled through some papers.

What could have possibly called you for? Nevertheless, you responded, “Yes, Professor, I am.”

He looked at you for a brief moment before laying a piece of paper in front of you. It was your exam, not graded yet, but it was yours. You furrowed your brows in confusion and then looked at him, “This is my exam…what’s wrong with it?”

He cleared his throat and rested his hands on his desk, “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. You’re an excellent student. The best student I’ve had so far.” He began slowly but you felt anxious, where was this going to?

“However, academic integrity is part of the student conduct every student must follow. I cannot grade your exam, y/n.”

It was as if time stopped. Your eyes widened, your heart was beating out of your chest. The silence was deafening, the pit in your stomach dropped heavy. “If you don’t grade this exam, I’ll fail the course,” you replied anxiously, “I can’t afford another class, I’ll have to wait for other scholarship opportunities to help me pay.”

He looked at you with sympathy but that didn’t mean he believed you, “Look, I know it’s stressful but that’s life. You don’t get an easy grade from cheating off a friend.”

“Cheating off a friend? Sir, with all due respect, I am not friends with anyone in the class,” you began to feel defensive. You didn’t know anyone, you only talked to them for projects. The professor raised his eyebrow as he stared at you.

“Someone told me that you copied from them. I won’t name the student since that’s between me and them,” he leaned forward onto the desk, “You’re an exemplary student, it hurts me to say this to you.”

All you could do was stare at him, someone actually wanted to ruin your grade and reputation. While you remained silent, he spoke, “Look, you have amazing grades and your participation has been outstanding. I’ll give you another chance. Retake the exam but it must be in my office.”

You furrowed your brows, “Why should I retake an exam if I didn’t cheat? I guarantee you, I would never lie on an exam. I am aware of the consequences that comes from cheating off of someone.”

Leon sighed and leaned back against his chair, “You’re stubborn, that’s good in a student.” He paused for a few moments, staring at you in silence, almost analyzing you. “Tell you what, I’ll investigate this further, however I still want you to take the exam again. If what you say is true then the retake of the exam will be extra credit for your grade.”

Extra credit? How can you say no to that? You sighed defeatedly and nodded along to his words, “Fine, I’ll retake the exam.”

He smiled softly and gave you a short single nod, “Good, come to my office on Wednesday at 12:30.”

You nod again and stood up to leave his office. His eyes trailed behind your back as you walked away from his office. Now all you had to do was wait for Wednesday so you can retake that exam, but first, should you find the person who accused you of cheating?

Wednesday came and you, lazily, made your way to his office. It was 12:25 as you were walking the halls of offices. The Dean’s office, some other professor’s office and then there was his. With his name plastered in the door in gold, Leon Scott Kennedy.

You knocked three times and heard a soft ‘Come in.’ You stepped into his office, immediately met with the smell of coffee, you forgot how much coffee this man consumed but honestly, who doesn’t consume coffee in college? “I’m here,” you spoke awkwardly as you looked at him. Your breath hitches in your throat as you scan him, he looked strangely hot. His tie was loose, his suit jacket hung on the back of his chair and his sleeves were rolled up. You were to see how toned and muscular his arms were, the watch on his left wrist made his hands look bigger for some reason. His hair was messy but it made him look godly.

“Ah, you’re here, good,” He motioned for you to sit down at the chair in front of his desk. “Take out your laptop, I published the exam for you. It should be there.”

You walked over to the chair and sat down in front of his desk, you pulled your laptop out of your school bag and began to scroll through your student account, “I see it.” You mumbled softly.

“Let me know when you’re ready, you have 90 minutes to complete the exam,” He replied politely. You could tell he was proud that you decided to retake it. With a soft sigh, you nodded and began to work on your exam. You leaned back against the chair as your laptop rested on your lap, you answered one question after another. It was an easy exam, you’ve taken it before.

Leon was watching you attentively, his eyes scanning over your relaxed figure. He noticed the way your hair seemed a little bit messy and how your brows scrunched up together in deep thought. He felt proud because he knew you were an ambitious student, you were everything he wanted in a student. Studious, hardworking, hot- wait a minute, hot?

He quickly looked away and focused on some miscellaneous files, he shouldn’t be thinking about his students. He kept stealing glances at you as you worked on your exam and he couldn’t help but feel hot. His eyes lingering on parts of your body, as if truly seeing you for the first time. He sees you as an attractive woman.

“I finished,” you mumbled softly as you looked up from your laptop, he quickly turned his gaze to his computer to check if you finished it. With a firm nod he responded, “Yeah, I see it. Good job, you got another perfect score.”

Of course you did, you were the smartest in his class. This was easy for you, light work. You closed your laptop and began to pack up but not before he tried to stop you, “Hey, wait- don’t leave yet.”

You looked up from your bag to look at him. He clears his throat and continues, “I still have to put in your grade and we need to talk about the cheating accusation.” You nodded and remained quiet as he kept speaking, “I decided to grade both your exams and use this attempt as your extra credit. You’re a great student and it would be a shame if anything bad were to happen to you that could affect your future.”

Your eyes widened, you couldn’t believe he was being this considerate. Most times when a student s caught cheating, a lawyer gets involved. But he was being nice, too nice even.

“What happened to the investigation?” You asked with furrowed brows. “I decided to drop it. I see that you scored the same on both tries so I guess that means you weren’t lying,” he replied as he maintained eye contact. His foggy blue eyes piercing into your soul. It didn’t help that his appearance made you feel butterflies.

“Actually, I also wanted to talk to you about this scholarship I found. It might be good for you,” His hand motioned for you to come up to him and his computer, you got up from the chair and walked to stand behind him. The screen showed a website of a scholarship due next semester. You heard him talk about the details but all you could focus on was the scent of his cologne. He smelled good albeit his messy look. He turned around in his chair to look at you and your faces were merely centimeters away from each other. You looked down at him and he looked up at you from his chair. It wasn’t on purpose but your gaze fell to his lips. Your gaze switched from his eyes to your lips and you didn’t notice how he slowly brought his hand to your cheek. He cupped your side of your face and brought you down to his face.

It wasn’t meant to happen but you felt your lips against his lips. The moment the two of you joined together as one in a kiss felt surreal. His lips tasted like coffee. His other hand traveled to your waist and pulled you down to his lap. You straddled his hips and gripped on his hair as you two emerged into a passionate and sensual kiss. His tongue brushing against your bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from you as he forced his tongue inside your mouth. The man was old but he knew how to kiss so good. You moaned into the kiss and felt his cock hardened against your clothed core. Causing your panties to grow a wet spot from the arousal. You shifted slightly against his hips, grinding up against his erection. Your kiss turned hot and messy, saliva dripping down as your chest is pressed up against his. His hands traveled down from your waist to your hips, fingers digging at your skin.

He put hind hands on the back of your thighs near your ass and picked you up. He gently laid your back down on his desk, not caring about the files falling to the floor right now. His mouth moved to your neck as he began to nibble and suck on your skin. Red marks terrorizing your sensitive skin as you moaned and gasped. Your hands gripped on the back of his hair as his hands began to travel to the inside of your shirt, touching your stomach and swiftly making their to your breasts. He growled against your skin as he pushed his hand inside your bra and felt the hardened nipple.

“Take it off,” I mumbled against your skin and pulled back. He helped you take off your shirt as you began to unclasp your bra, revealing those beautiful titties to him. Their color only making him water the mouth, he dropped down to one of your breast and began to suck hard on it while his hand manhandled the other. You arched your back as his tongue moved swiftly across areola of your breast. The salivating skin coating your breast as his teeth grazed your nipple. Your moans and whimpers escaping your mouth as he destroyed your breasts with his mouth and hand. You felt good.

He pulled back from your chest and looked down at the marvelous sight before him. He leaned down to kiss you again before softly whispering against your lips, “Let me know if you want to stop.”

You nodded your head and watched as his hands traveled down to his trousers and began to unbuckle his belt and buttons. He pulled his pants down to his thighs and pulled down on his boxers. His erection jumping from the enclosed space, hitting his abdomen with a thwack as precum had been leaking. He was large, the tip a rosy tone of pink with a vein protruding from the side, his cock leaned to his left and you could swear you saw it twitch. It was a spectacular sight. His hands quickly went down to take off your pants, pulling them to your ankles before taking them off completely. His noticed the wet spot in your panties from your presumably wet cunt.

His index finger pressed down against the fabric covering your clit, the slick of your folds seeping through the fabric as you shut your eyes tightly and moaned quietly. He smirked and began to circled your clit through your panties, he wasn’t aware you were into this but he obliged.

Just as you were near your orgasm, he pulled his finger back and pulled your panties down towards the floor along with your pants. He stood in between your legs and aligned his throbbing tip with your entrance, “I wish I had the time to prepare you but I’ve got a meeting after this,” he mumbled as he pushed himself into you, not giving you time to respond as your mouth became full of moans.

He made sure to fill up with his cock until his balls made contact with your ass, your jaw fell slack as you rolled your head back against his desk. Leon slowly began to thrust in and out, not fully pulling out, he was kind enough to let you adjust to his size.

Once he was sure you were doing good, he began to thrust into you. Pulling out and pushing back in with force, causing the desk to grind against the floor. He leaned down and put his hands on either side of your head. Your hands traveled to his hair and back, clawing your nails through his shirt.

The sound of skin clapping and the smell of sweat and sex covered the room. The air felt humid as both of your breaths became heavy and labored. You felt his tip touch your cervix, sending a wave of pleasure over you through a whimper. He kept thrusting, making sure to hit your g-spot and cervix. He may not have fingered you but he was still a gentleman, he wanted to make sure you enjoyed this just as much.

Your moans began to cut short as your breathing increasing, you arched your back and felt the band in your lower stomach stretching to a snap. And soon enough, your pussy clenched around his cock. Your orgasm milking and pulsating as he thrusted in you while you were experiencing your high. You closed your eyes and the darkness was clouded with stars.

His own thrusts faltered a little bit as he felt you clench and pulsate around his member and without a second thought he couldn’t contain his own cum from spilling inside you. His hot and thick juices shooting into your womb as he slammed his cock into your cunt for one last time. He kept himself buried inside you as he tried to catch his breath. Both of you panting and sweaty.

He slowly pulled out of you and watched as his cum dropped down from your cunt to his desk, the sight making his cock throb again but he couldn’t indulge himself for a second round as he had a meeting to attend. He helped you clean yourself up with some tissues he had and handed you your clothes from the floor. You both began to dress yourselves as the aftermath of what you two had done began to settle into your heads. He looked at you with a smirk and kissed your cheek, his stubble grazing your skin.

“I’ve got to now, sweetheart,” he whispered as his hand cupped your cheek like he did previously. “You should let me take you to dinner some time.”

You could only nod as you were still feeling dumb from the sex, “Yeah…”

He chuckled and pressed a light kiss on your lips before leaving you in his office.

Who knew a professor could fuck so good?

[joshslater]

Emergency Model

Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

"Excuse me, what's your shoe size?"

Bewildered I looked around to find the man who asked the random question, like out of that old episode of Monty Python. Off to the side, almost behind me, was a thirty-ish man in polo shirt, jeans, and glasses with plastic rims that looked purposefully selected to make him look like a film director or architect. He looked unsure or stressed. "Eight, eight and a half. Who's asking?"

Immediately he brightened up. "Hello. I'm Ben Atkinson, " he said and extended his hand. "We're making a photo shoot of the supplemental collection of sporting clothes," he continued without waiting for me to shake it. "It's all for the online shop, so simple stuff. White background, a few poses." Tentatively I shook his hand. "Pretty fast rotation of models. Unfortunately one of them has called in sick. You have the right look, but more importantly the right build and size."

"Uhum," I answered, sensing where this was going. It was a Saturday morning, and I was on my way to meet up with some friends at Wayland's Deli.

"This is quite sudden, but we are on a tight deadline. If you're willing to model for us I'll give you twice the normal rate."

"Ok," I said, not waiting to hear what the normal rate was. I'm sure Stuart would not stop giving me grief about it for the rest of the year, but I would technically be a photo model which wouldn't be a negative in Sarah's eyes. Turned out that it would also be double my monthly earnings as well, so maybe I could shut Stuart up as well.

We entered the building, which apparently was an office space that had been taken over for the day for the shoot. There were racks of clothes everywhere, lots of people with iPads tracking what item was where, who should wear it, and in what conference room they should shoot it. It was bustling with activity. After some exchange of information with Ben, and signing papers, I was handed over to a conference room turned makeup and styling studio. Most of the furniture was stacked in one corner and the floor was covered by transparent plastic that had been rolled out. To one side was a table with lots of makeup tools and bottles and stuff I wouldn't know how to use, except maybe the hand mirror and the scissors, and even that I'm not confident with. A pair of strong LED lamps on stands lit a chair placed at the center of the plastic. 

"I'm Julia, pleased to meet you. So you are the last one," said the stylist, carefully surveying me and in particular my face and hair. "We're short on time, so we have to work quickly. Are you ok with a buzz cut and tight fade?" Not what I would have chosen, but it's starting to get warm outside and it's only hair. I'd be back to my current length after the summer. "Sure."

She seated me in the chair and began the work with a corded trimmer, and soon a flurry of detail work with smaller trimmers and some of her tools from the table. Probably took her about ten minutes for the haircut. Then some time with a straight razor blade and a tweezer to pluck and shave all over my face and then arms. I told her that this was all new to me, having literally just been picked from the street. She reassured me that there wasn't much to it. Just be no-nonsense about it. Take whatever the stylist decides, change clothes quickly, do the poses the photographer asks for, and repeat.

"All done," she said and handed me the hand mirror as if I had any say in this. I looked so different than just moments before. The hair was shorter than I've ever had it, with a razor sharp fringe line. The fade on the sides was basically just an inch tall from the head and down the temple, then skin tight down, and presumably the same around the back of the head as well. The total amount of hair I was left with could fit a shot glass. "If you go down the corridor to the break room there is a shower in the bathroom there. Ask Andy outside to let you in. Take a quick rinse to get rid of stray hairs, change into these, put your stuff in one of the plastic boxes there, and come back to me for a final touch-up." She handed me a pair of white briefs and white socks. I hesitated a bit, and she was quick to jump ahead of my thoughts. "Everyone around here are used to see gorgeous bodies without clothes. Act as if it is normal, because to us it is. You can't be self-conscious. Oh, and Andy is the only one with a key, so your valuables are safe." Another boy showed up at the door saying he needed a new application. I told Julia thanks and went to look for Andy.

Andy unlocked the door to the office lunch room for me and I did as Julia had told me. I stripped naked and put everyting, clothes, wallet, phone, keys, shoes, into one of the plastic boxes, wrote my name on it with a whiteboard marker and placed it next to all the other boxes. Eight boxes in total. I went into the bathroom, took a 90 seconds shower, and dried myself off with one of the towels from the pile. I put on the briefs and socks, had Julia apply her things to me, and within ten minutes I was dressed in Nike shoes, joggers, and a fleece hoodie, being ordered by a photographer who didn't have time to introduce himself to look left, turn around, put my hands in my pockets, pull up the hood, sit down on the floor, and on and on. Then out change, and back with the next item.

It was going non-stop since they were behind on my stuff, so I had barely time to talk to anyone. There wasn't any proper lunch break either, just a protein bar together with two of the other models, Mark and Andrew. At first they thought it was funny that I had just been snatched off the street for the shoot, but when I told them how much more money I got they were like "fuck you, go back to work". Well the break was over anyway, so I don't know how serious they were.

It continued with item after item, until I realized I was the only model left. The others had taken off without saying goodbye, not that we had any relation. People were moving things out of the office, and when I asked about the hurry they said there was a firm deadline when they had to be out so the cleaning crew could put everything back to a working office again. I could feel the pressure as it was my item changes that held up everyone. I swapped into a pair of MRKNTN underwear that probably was like half a size too small but decided to just power through with the shoot. As soon as the last photo had been taken, they started to dismantle the light rigs. As I walked back to the lunch room I could see that most of the clothes racks were gone. The makeup room was back to looking like a conference room. I couldn't find Andy anywhere though, and the lunch room with my stuff was still locked. I wanted my stuff for sure, but more importantly I wanted to get out of the underwear that kept squeezing and chafing. I couldn't go more than 30 seconds without having my hands down the joggers to adjust them.

Ben wasn't anywhere to be seen either. I asked one of the remaining people and he said they had all left, working on getting all the stuff back and preparing the "delivery pipeline" for the photos. Probably Andy had checked off everyone from his list, and it was printed before I was recruited. "Just keep the clothes you have on and you can come back here Monday and pick up your stuff," he said.

Fuck.

No point in hanging around any longer. Everyone wanted to leave as soon as possible, so I just left and headed towards the bus stop. It was getting late and with no phone on me I couldn't call home and say what was going on.

Fuck.

I didn't have anything to pay the bus fare with. I could perhaps go back to the office building and see if I could catch anyone exiting, use their phone, and call for someone to pick me up. But there was no telling if and when I would get hold of anyone. Just walking back there would make me miss the next bus, so that would set me back at least an hour. I could just as well ask someone else to use their phone. Or perhaps ask them to cover the bus fare.

That's when I saw them, a little bit further down the street, past the bus stop. Six boys huddled at the corner, talking and messing around as if no one else was around. One had a bike. All of them dressed in the kind of clothes I had spent all day modeling in, track suits, hoodies, trainers. All of them were smoking. I figured I'd have as good a chance with them as with anyone else now, looking the way I looked.

As I was getting closer one of them alerted the others and they had some kind of conversation about me. "Hello, excuse me. Could I borrow money for the bus fare from any of you?" There was a second of silence before a mixed snicker erupted, and one of them answered "No, bruv. I don't think so."

I don't know why, but for some reason I was mortified by how I had been dismissed. I could feel my face turning red, so I quickly turned away from them to make my way back to the bus stop, without any plan of what to do next.

"Oi, bruv!" I heard from behind me. Looking back at them I could see three boys had gotten up and were heading my way. "Callum's grafting down at the barber's for some extra quid and need someone to practice on. What if he can do some practice while we cover the fare and take you home safely? Fair, innit?"

"I barely have any hair," I said and let my hand touch my fresh skin fade, almost shocking myself with how radically different it felt.

"Won't be much of a nick then, bruv."

He was right. There wasn't much he could ruin. I had only a few millimeters of hair so in the worst case scenario I could shave completely and it would be back within the week.

"Good lad. A deal innit."

"Yes," I said, unsure if it was expected. The guy who had spoken and Callum flanked me while the third lad walked behind me, enveloping me with the scent of smoke and body spray. After a silent moment the guy spoke again, introducing himself as Iwan and the third guy as Rob, and asked where I lived. I gave him the bus stop, Hillside Garden North, about 18 minutes ride. Would have been busy during the week, but at weekends there wouldn't be many on the bus.

We didn't have to wait long for the bus to arrive, but instead of entering by the driver they all bunched up again with me in the middle and entered through the exit doors as a single unit. Then they quickly moved to the back of the bus and pushed me into a seat next to Callum, facing Iwan and Rob in the furthest back seat. I half expected the driver to say something over the speakers, but there was barely a delay, if any, before the bus was moving as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I looked at Iwan with perhaps a bit of surprise and he just shrugged as if to say "what did you expect? That the driver would confront us?"

Then he nodded at Callum next to me, backpack in his lap, who answered "Aye" and got up. He placed the bag on the seat and positioned himself right in front of me, one leg on either side of mine, his knees hitting the edge of the seat, and his left hand grabbing the rail behind me. It felt both imposing and intimate. He opened the backpack and rummaged around with his right hand until he found a small trimmer in a zip-lock bag.

He opened it with both hands and threw the plastic bag into the backpack. Then he looked out and waited for the bus to drive on straight and even road before he turned the trimmer on. Then slowly he moved it in an arched line from my temple and along the side of my head until he reached the neck. Then he studied for a few seconds before he made a few additional buzzes along the same line.

"Not bad, innit?" he said while shifting his body so Iwan and Rob could see. "Fucking mint, mate," Iwan answered.

Then he turned on the trimmer again and unexpectedly extended the line by buzzing my eyebrow for a few seconds. I hadn't even considered my eyebrows. Callum reached into his backpack again to put the trimmer in the zip-lock, but without moving his feet so his body pressed even closer to me. While I couldn't see much, I could certainly feel his body spray filling my nostrils while I felt my eyebrows with my fingers. I guess there would be a lot to explain to mother anyway, so this would just be yet another detail.

I could just see it for a fraction of a second. It looked like a small glue gun in off-white plastic. Then before I could realize what it was it was pressed against my ear, it made a snapping sound, and I felt a sharp pain. "What the!" I said, more in surprise than pain.

"18G piercing. Hurts more, heals slower, but much better," Callum offered, as if it was the type of piercing that was in question, not that he had done it at all. He reloaded the piercing gun and I struggled with what to do. Just take it like the first one? Why should I? But then one piercing was the real threshold. Once you pass that, two is if anything better than one. This would soon be over anyway.

He was just as quick with the second one as the first one. "These need to stay in 30 days, you hear me?" he said, still standing essentially on top of me. "Yes, I understand," I said with a sinking feeling of all the implications. He put the gun back into the bag and went searching for something again. Finally he pulled out some sort of pliers, then held my earlobe with one hand while doing something with the pliers with the other. "Making sure they don't fall off," he explained before sitting down again on his seat. I could see Iwan and Rob again, and booth looked pleased. Iwan looked absolutely chuffed. "Fucking proper, innit" he said and pat me hard on the shoulder. "Fucking proper."

After than Iwan opened up and started to ask me all kinds of questions, starting with my name, which I realized I hadn't given him when he presented everyone. I was soon giving the highlights of the day as a photo model until we arrived my stop. To my surprise everyone got off with me. "Said we would take you home safe." We continued to chat all the way home and it turned out me Iwan and Rob had the same taste in electronic music while Callum was more of a rock guy.

"Ok, this is my stop," I said once we reached my house. "Meet us Monday, same time and place," Iwan said. "What?" "You owe us £2 for the bus, bruv." "But..." "You going back on our deal?" "No, I'll come by." "And wear the same clothes. Underwear too." "No! I have classes." "You'll figure it out, bruv." Callum opened his backpack again and tossed something to Iwan. "And use this," he said and handed over a can of Lynx Jungle body spray. "What if I don't? What if I don't do any of that?" "Where you live isn't a secret, innit? See you Monday, bruv."

[rottenpumpkin13]

You know how moms have photos of their kids that the kids find mortifying, their friends find hilarious and moms find endearing?

What photos does Lazard have of his idiots?

Blackmail Photos On Lazard's Phone

• Sephiroth and Angeal sweeping confetti from the floor after an office party but they're posing like American Gothic, with Sephiroth holding up the broom like the pitchfork.

• The same after party cleanup, this time it's Sephiroth and Angeal beating Genesis with their broomsticks because he wasn't helping.

• Zack holding out his burger, where Sephiroth is taking a bite.

• Sephiroth in the corner of the conference room using Genesis' balled up red coat as a pillow and his hair as an eye mask.

• The First Class trio covered in mud after a mission. Head to toe. They clearly look like they're being forced to stake the picture.

• Minutes later, a photo of Genesis and Sephiroth flinging mud at each other while Angeal yells at them.

• Angeal mid-fall as the chair he had been teetering on finally tipped back. Lazard had been warning him he would fall, but Angeal didn't listen.

• Sephiroth with a failed merchandise prototype that's a plushie of Genesis, but it doesn't have eyebrows. Sephiroth is holding it like a trophy.

• Zack changing a lightbulb on Angeal's shoulder. Sephiroth and Genesis thought the pose looked cool, so Genesis can be seen on Sephiroth's shoulders in the background, except he's falling so he's just a blur of red.

• A shame photo he took of Angeal sweeping up the dirt he tracked into the 49th floor after purchasing yet another office plant.

• A photo of Genesis taken at 4:15 AM, where he's wearing sunglasses and holding a cup of coffee. His coat is inside out.

• Sephiroth at lunch with ketchup all over his chest after the ketchup bottle nozzle broke and squirted everywhere. Zack's hand can be seen dipping a fry into Sephiroth's chest.

• An unflattering photo of Genesis mid-yawn. Angeal and Sephiroth are beside him, Angeal is holding up a piece of Sephiroth's hair so it looks like Genesis is about to eat it.

• Sephiroth having an existential crisis inside a giant cardboard box, except only his eyes are visible, reminiscent of a hippo partially underwater.

• Zack standing in front of a PowerPoint presentation where one slide is just the word "ASS" on screen. He's doing a thumbs up.

• A followup photo of Zack lowering his head in shame, "ASS" still visible on the PowerPoint behind him. Angeal and Sephiroth are arguing in the photo over wether or not Zack should be allowed to spell "ASS" on an official PowerPoint presentation.

• A photo of Genesis laying on the couch in the break room, except it's zoomed in to see what's on his screen. Genesis is in the process of looking up "Sephiroth x Genesis fanfiction enemies to lovers slow burn" online.

• Zack, but his head is through a wall after he ran into it. Lazard actually took this photo to show upper management that they need to do some remodeling.

• Someone organized the letter magnets in the break room fridge to read "Fuck bitches get money" and Sephiroth is standing in front of it, doing a thumbs up.

• Angeal in the process of pouring a beer into a bowl of cereal instead of milk. What makes this photo funny is Zack sobbing in the background as he watches this.

• Genesis but he's just a red blur of motion mid-slip, the wet floor sign in full view.

• Cloud standing outside Genesis' office holding a cardboard sign that reads "PRAY FOR GENESIS. NOTHING HAPPENED TO HIM, HE'S JUST A CUNT."

• A shame photo he made Genesis, Angeal and Sephiroth take, where they're crossing out the "This department has gone 15 days without a Jenga-related fight."

• Another shame photo of Sephiroth who's sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, his fallen bowl of splattered ramen on the floor beside him.

• Genesis mid-mental breakdown, curled into a ball on the floor in his office, where they pranked him by filling it with cardboard cutouts of Sephiroth.

• Cloud Strife (in his infantry uniform) posing next to his employee of the month photo. Yes, this was on the SOLDIER floor.

[eyneyke]

FIFA Master

Pairing: Max Verstappen x PewDiePie!sibling Summary: What if Felix had a genius brother who works as a RedBull's engineer and is also secretly dating Max part 15 of A Calm to my Storm Masterlist

Two weeks after that, now famous, live on Pewdiepie's channel, fans online were still going crazy about Sam.

At the next race’s press conference, a journalist raised their hand, standing up with a mischievous smile. "This question is for Max," they began, causing Max to glance up with a knowing smirk already on his face. "Recently, Sam Kjellberg, your engineer, made an appearance on his brother Felix’s livestream, and he revealed that you’ve been dragging him to FIFA matches in hotel rooms with other drivers. How do you feel about the internet’s reaction to your engineer becoming their new crush? What do you comment?"

Max chuckled softly, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned closer to the microphone. "Yeah, I’ve seen some of the reactions," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "It's funny. Sam’s really good at FIFA—I knew that, so I figured it’d be fun to introduce him to the other drivers. Now, we tag team them and crushing others has become part of the entertainment between races." Max glanced around the room, his eyes sparkling as if holding back more laughter. "As for the internet’s reaction, well, I think it’s great that they’re appreciating Sam's… talents."

The room erupted in soft laughter, while the other drivers shot Max amused glances.

Carlos Sainz chimed in, "I still don't believe that Sam is just that good. I was so sure I was just having an off day when he destroyed me at FIFA the first time. Now it is always fun to see who he and Max will destroy next."

Lando Norris, leaning forward with his trademark grin, added, "Yeah, I lost to him too. I thought Max was just showing off a mate, but now I realise I got tricked. And we are all in this sport so you know that there are bets flying every time and our egos are way too big to be that easily bruised."

The journalist, sensing the perfect moment to stir the pot even more, turned to Max again. "The fans are particularly obsessed with his… arms. Some are even saying Sam’s the secret behind your success."

Max’s grin widened. "Well, Sam’s definitely got the brains behind a lot of what we do. His arms? That’s just a bonus." The entire press room chuckled at the playful comment, but Max wasn’t done. "I mean, if the fans think his arms are helping, who am I to argue?"

The journalist pressed on, sensing more entertainment. "And what about the fact that Sam is Felix Kjellberg, also known as Pewdiepie's, brother? Have you met Felix yet?"

Max let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "No, I haven’t met Felix in person. But I’ve heard plenty about him from Sam. He’s told me a lot of funny stories, so I feel like I know him without even meeting him." Max’s tone was playful, his eyes dancing as if he was in on a joke that no one else knew.

Meanwhile, Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the moment. "Wait, so we’ve been hanging out with PewDiePie’s brother this whole time, and none of us knew? I need to get Sam to get me an autograph."

Max laughs, leaning back in his chair. "What can I say? Sam’s a low-key guy. He doesn't care if cameras are around or not, he is always the same. With all of us being in the spotlight during races it is refreshing to have around someone who just really doesn't care."

The journalist, eager to keep the fun going, turned to the rest of the drivers. "So, what do you all think about Sam being PewDiePie’s brother and the internet going wild over him?"

George Russell, who hadn’t spoken much, chuckled softly. "Honestly, I only found out recently. It’s wild, but it makes sense. He’s a pretty cool guy, haven't talked to him much but I hope to be invited to some of those FIFA game-nights."

Lewis Hamilton smiled when asked about this, leaning into the microphone. "I’ve never met him, but from what I hear, he seems like a legend."

The room filled with more laughter, but Max remained cool, his playful smirk never leaving his face. As the press conference wrapped up, the internet exploded with more thirst for Sam Kjellberg—while Max secretly relished in the chaos he was helping fuel.

What no one knew���apart from Christian and Gigi Horner (and Checo, of course)—was that Sam wasn’t just Max’s engineer; they were secretly dating. As Max left the press conference, the thought of how well they’d managed to keep their relationship under wraps amused him. Fans were focusing on Sam’s arms and FIFA prowess, while Max was content to egg them on, loving every moment of their obliviousness.

---

Later that night, as Max and Sam lounged on the couch in Max's apartment, tangled together under a blanket, their clothes scattered around them on the floor, they laughed at the memory of the press conference.

Max, still grinning, pressed a kiss to Sam’s temple. "The way others think that all the time we spend in my room is us practicing FIFA is just so funny to me."

Sam chuckled, his fingers tracing circles on Max’s chest. "You really love feeding them more, huh? And watching fans freak out over me."

Max smirked. "It's too much fun not to. They’re all obsessed with your arms, and meanwhile, they have no idea I'm the one who left that hickey Jack teased you about."

Sam snorted, shifting to look up at Max with a teasing smile. "Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Could’ve been a little less obvious."

Max only laughed, pulling Sam closer. "Hey, you loved it. And now, the internet thinks you’re single and just out there breaking hearts with your FIFA skills, while Jack is trying not to laugh when your brother offers to match you with some of his friends. And I learned to love you and leave evidence in less obvious spots, haven't I?"

Sam rolled his eyes but smiled. "Yeah, i guess you did. Let’s keep them guessing for a while longer. It’s fun watching them freak out. And it'll be even funnier when Felix finds out."

Max kissed him softly, his smile never fading. "Whatever you want Shatje."

[ynscrazylife]

His Agent

Summary: When the Avengers save a team of kidnapped S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents, they discover something new about their Captain.

A/N: I’ve been working on this fic for a little while and I’m proud of this idea/plot so I really hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

The first clue that something was off was the change in Natasha and Clint’s behavior. They could usually hide it, being master spies, but it became difficult to constantly put on a mask around the people you live with, people you saved the world with. Steve, Tony, Bruce, and Thor all noticed how the pair retreated into themselves like turtles would into their shells. They had always been reserved - Natasha especially - but it went to a deeper level now. They would talk in hushed whispers to each other, were always hunched over something, their backs to the rest of the team, and were distracted when it came to Avengers business. 

The next clue was when Director Fury postponed his meeting with the Avengers. Since establishing the initiative, he had made a point to have monthly meetings with the team to discuss any recent updates, missions and threats. Fury was adamant that these meetings were very crucial to the Avengers’ success, so to hear that he was pushing it back right as they were gathering around the conference table was a surprise. Still, not enough for them to think it might be related to Natasha and Clint’s behavior. Fury said the meeting would be in a few days, that was all. 

Then, things went from being off to being wrong. They all sat at the table, ready to see Fury’s face come up on screen, but he never appeared – Deputy Director Maria Hill did. 

“What happened?” Natasha asked almost immediately, not even letting Maria get a word in as she leaned forward in her chair. It was clear that she knew more than what she was letting on. 

“Director Fury cannot make it today, he’s dealing with a crucial issue, one that we hope we can call on you, Avengers, to help us with,” Hill said, her words flowing calmly, but there was still a spark of urgency, almost desperation, in her eyes. 

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, wearing a puzzled look. If S.H.I.E.L.D. was coming to them for help when they had the best agents around the globe, and the Director was attending to it, they must be in some sort of crisis. 

“A week ago, we lost contact with a six person team that had gone undercover to investigate an uprising organization who’s been trying to create their own superhumans. We received intel that they had been torturing people and creating illegal serums and devices for their superhuman projects. After being unable to contact any of them, we also found that none of their trackers were online,” Hill explained. 

“So you think their cover was blown?” Tony guessed. 

“We do, yes. We had a team scout the building the agents had gone undercover in a few days ago and found no sign of them. We think that they’ve moved them somewhere else,” Hill answered. 

“Who’s missing?” Bruce asked. 

A file flashed onto the screen, a list of names with pictures. Everyone leaned forward in their seats to get a better look, their eyes skimming the document. The sound of wheels rolling back caught their attention as Steve suddenly stood up, spun around on his heels and walked out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

“What the hell was that?” Clint asked, utterly confused - like everyone else. 

Hill sighed. “It may have something to do with one of the Agents on the list – Y/L/N. She helped Steve a lot after he came out of the ice, they were good friends,” she said. 

//

One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two. One, two. One– 

Steve panted as he stared down at the punching bag which clattered to the ground, sweat coating his raised biceps. 

“You know, if you really want to get your frustrations out, you should spar with someone,” a voice floated into his ear and Steve glanced up, only to see you lifting some weights. 

He straightened his arched back, dropping his arms. “Oh, yeah? How do you reckon that?” He asked, curious. 

You smirked. “You’re not the only one who’s broken the bag,” you said, shrugging. “Though, it took me a lot longer without the super strength.” 

Steve raised his eyebrows, wondering what got you so mad, but not commenting on it. Then, he couldn’t help but fix you with a confused gaze. 

“What?” You asked, still smiling at him. 

“You’re not, uh, gawking at me,” he said. 

You chuckled, asking, “Am I supposed to?” Before he could answer, you made a silly, dramatic jaw-dropped, eyes wide face, causing Steve’s laughter to mix with yours. 

“Ever since I woke up, everyone’s kinda been . . . gawking at me. Except for Director Fury, that is,” Steve said. 

“Well, I’ll admit, I kinda gawked at you at first when I heard about you . . . But I saw you one time, in the medbay . . . I don’t know how to explain it, ‘cause you weren’t just Captain America, you know? When I saw you, with all the blankets and the wires and stuff . . . I just thought about a guy who had been something traumatic. I thought about the Steve that your war buddies always described you as,” you said. 

From that day on, you were a light in Steve’s life. You two became fast friends and, at least on Steve’s part, his attraction for you grew exponentially, and you even spent some time with him at the Retreat. After joining the Avengers, he had been so busy that he hadn’t seen you and now . . . Your name was on a list of MIA Agents. 

He paced up and down the hallway outside the conference room, hand tangled in his hair. All logical and rational thoughts jumped out the window as panic seized his body, twisting his heart into a knot. His mind was filled with you: your name, your image, your memory. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from giving him horrible scenes of you being tortured or experimented on by these freaks. Hurt. Kidnapped. Scared.

The only way to get you back was to return to the conference room and face it, so that’s what he did. Thankfully, no one called out his abrupt departure, they were all focussed on Hill’s debrief. She was saying something about how she thought they were close to finding another base of the group’s, where they might have the captured agents, but could use Natasha’s hacking and cyber skills to decode their intel. She readily agreed. 

“Can you guys suit up and meet us at headquarters?” Maria asked, to which they all nodded. She ended the call and the Avengers all spurred into action, splitting up to change into their suits and arm themselves. 

On the way out, Natasha patted Steve’s arm. “We’ll save them,” she assured her friend, but he picked up on what she was really saying: “We’ll find Y/N.” 

// 

Steve realized pretty quickly, as he changed into his suit that if he wanted to get through this without falling apart, he’d have to switch to his Captain mode. He had to think strategically - they were saving a team of agents, not just you (even if you were the most important agent to him). He’d put Natasha, Clint, and Tony on fighting the kidnappers, Bruce would standby with the medical team in case they needed the Hulk, and Steve himself and Thor would recover the hostages. He also assumed they’d have S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to secure the base and to back them up. It was a solid plan, Steve told himself, and it was going to work. It had to work. 

When they got to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters, Steve relayed this plan to the team. Everyone was on board and now it was a waiting game as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to crack the location. Steve was about to wear a hole into the floor with all the pacing he was doing, his heart hammering in his chest. Every second that passed felt like a decade. 

After the location was found, it was all a blur. Coordinating with the agents, talking with Hill and Fury, and getting to the base seemed to just all pass by. The moment he woke up was when he was entering the base alongside Thor, the agents and Avengers ahead of them to take care of their enemies.

“I can handle the rescue, Captain. You can focus on your agent,” Thor chimed in as they walked down the hallway, towards the cells they were told the hostages were in. 

Steve paused for a second to look at his friend. “Are-are you sure?” He asked – for once the mighty soldier was taken aback. He wanted nothing more than to devote all his attention to you, but he also knew he had a job to do as an Avenger and a leader. He owed it to all the hostages to give them his best self. 

“He has me, of course he’s sure,” Tony’s voice came from behind them as he approached. Steve could practically hear the snark in his voice (Tony Snark, he should be named, but he’d have to save that quip for another time). “They’ve got it handled up there so don’t worry, Cap.” 

Steve looked from him to Thor, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Okay,” he agreed, emitting an unspoken word of gratitude which both men received. For the first time in a long time, he felt a weight being lifted on his shoulders. For once, he got to abandon Captain America for a second and walk in there as Steve. For you. 

The three Avengers walked down the rest of the hallway and turned, finding a row of cells. Thor and Tony took charge, allowing for Steve to glance through all the cells until he found you. Finding you was what he wanted but the sight he was met with when he actually laid his eyes on you shattered him. The urge to vomit and also send every person responsible for this to hell hit him in one fell swoop. You were sitting, slumped back against a dirty metal pole that your wrists and ankles were chained to. You were still wearing your S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, though it was dirtied, bloodied, and torn in places. So was your skin, Steve realized. He ached at knowing you went through pain. Your eyes were closed and Steve hoped to God that you were simply sleeping.  

Steve quickly bent to his knees and used his shield to break the chains, the harsh clang rousing you from your sleep. You mumbled something he couldn’t understand and he hushed you softly. “It’s alright, I’m here. It’s Steve, can you open your eyes?” He asked. 

It took you a couple tries, but eventually you got there. “S’ve?” You tried to say, struggling to talk. 

“Yep, it’s me,” he affirmed, feeling a pang at the fact that you could barely even speak. When he had thought about when he’d see you again, this was never in the realm of possibilities. “I’m getting you out of here.” 

True to his word, he hoisted you up in his arms. He had to put you over his shoulder like a Fireman’s carry in case there were any lingering enemies that escaped the team. Being upside down was surely uncomfortable for you, but he wouldn’t risk not being able to defend you. With long strides and quick glances, Steve got you out of there. 

Stepping outside into the world, he slowly lowered you down and maneuvered you into a princess carry, not going fast so as to not dizzy you. In the distance, he could see your other teammates getting loaded onto ambulances, with some of the Avengers assisting. 

“Hey, you with me?” Steve checked in, returning his attention to you. You were definitely out of it, eyes glazed over as you looked at him. You didn’t seem to really get what was going on, but you didn’t look panicked, so you must’ve known you were safe. With him. 

For a second - Steve was taken back. The tired look in your eyes reminded him of the aftermath of the first time the two of you had sparred together. 

“Are you sure you want to spar together, Y/N?” 

“What? You don’t think I can take you? Prepare to have your ass beat, Rogers!” 

With the super soldier serum running through his veins, it was actually you who had your ass beat by the blond man. You had probably known that would happen when you said it, too. Still, Steve needed to train and you were determined not to let his superior strength intimidate you like it had done with the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Afterwards, you had insisted you were fine, but Steve knew that the many rounds you guys went through had exhausted you. He tried to apologize, but you refused to hear it. You knew what the terms were and you agreed to it - he won fair and square. You had fallen asleep on his shoulder that night, much like how you looked like you’d fall asleep in his arms now, and Steve swore in that moment that you were the most precious thing ever. 

“Steve,” you mumbled, blinking slowly at him like a cat. His heart thumped with such force in his chest - oh how he regretted drifting apart from you after he became an Avenger. 

“Hang on a little longer. We’ve gotta get you to S.H.I.E.L.D. medical,” he said, shifting you up a little higher in his arms before heading over to the ambulances. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D.?” You echoed grumpily, eyes half-closed. 

Steve bit back an amused chuckle at the way you scrunched up your nose. Truly like a cat (or a kitten, but he knew you’d raise hell if he called you that). You never much appreciated the medical agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. You knew they meant well, but something about the whole thing made you uneasy. Steve was well aware of that and he thought about it as you walked. The Avengers had a pretty good medical facility . . . Not to mention, the thought of leaving you again and walking away like he had done with the Avengers felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t do that. 

“Would you rather recover at the Avengers’ tower? I’m sure I can make the arrangements and I’ll, um, I’ll be around much more,” he offered, his eyes finding you again. He could never look away from you for too long. 

Steve was still a little nervous about this. You had every right to say no, to be mad at him for abandoning you. If you did make the decision to go to S.H.I.E.LD., he’d show up in your room with flowers as much as you’d let him, he decided. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, nestling your head against his bicep and closing your eyes. 

That was like music to his ears. He knew that things between you weren’t 100% back to normal, but this felt better than what he had ever expected. With a newfound purpose and his feelings for you blossoming, he marched towards the other Avengers to tell them about their new addition to the compound. 

[toldthatdevil]

Oral Fixations | Mommy!Wanda Maximoff x Little!Reader

pairings: mommy!wanda maximoff x little!reader

warnings: age regression

content: oral fixation, fluff, soft moments.

a/n: thank you so much for your req, sorry it took me a little while to get to it but I hope you enjoy <3

Wanda Maximoff sat at her desk, engrossed in a virtual conference call with her colleagues. Things had shifted recently where Wanda had been able to spend more and more time at home, working online every now and then when needed. She liked it this way, preferred it even, it meant she was able to spend much more time with her precious little one.

The soft glow of the computer screen illuminated Wanda’s features as she discussed matters of importance, giving a rundown of the previous meeting that had happened the day before. Amidst the virtual chatter filling the room, you sat close to Wanda’s side on a bundle of small pillows and blankets you had brought into the room to create a safe space by your mommy’s desk.

You loved nothing more than to sit by your mommy’s side observing Wanda as she expertly navigated the conversation, her voice both confident and engaged. You were too little to understand what was being said but nevertheless you couldn’t help the small smile that played across your lips as you watched your mommy work.

You could feel yourself beginning to get fidgety, your fingers idly tapping along the edges of the desk, a habit that often surfaced when you needed to occupy your hands. Noticing y/n’s restlessness, Wanda momentarily glanced your way, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Darling, do you need something to keep your hands busy?"

Your cheeks tinged with a faint blush as you met Wanda's gaze.

“M sorry, mommy, didn’t mean to distract you.”

Wanda leaned slightly in your direction, her voice a playful whisper. "You're never a distraction, love."

As Wanda's attention returned to the ongoing conversation, you found yourself seeking a solution to your restlessness. Your gaze settled on Wanda's hand resting on the armrest of her chair, her fingers tapping lightly in rhythm with her thoughts.

Without thinking much of it, you scooted yourself closer to Wanda, your fingers lightly grazing Wanda's hand.

You looked up at the screen to see if you were in the frame but luckily for you, you went unnoticed by the others on the call. You slowly brought Wanda's hand closer to your lips, eyes fixed on the screen still - just in case.

Gently, you pressed your mouth down around the junction of Wanda's pointer finger and thumb, the tender contact seemed to sooth both you and Wanda as the warmth of Wanda's skin beneath your lips created a sense of connection.

As the conference call continued, Wanda's gaze shifted, her eyes meeting yours with a mixture of affection and understanding. You couldn’t help but smile anytime your mommy looked at you the way she did, she was always so beautiful and you were in constant awe of her.

As the call drew to a close, Wanda's fingers stilled, and her hand settled more fully into your touch. With a satisfied sigh, you released the gentle press of your lips, your fingers tracing a soft pattern on Wanda's wet skin, a mark from where your mouth had just been.

Wanda's voice was low and intimate as she spoke. "Feeling better?"

You smiled again, your gaze meeting hers. "Mhm, thank you mommy."

Please do not copy or repost my work anywhere. Feedback is always welcome as are re-blogs, comments, and likes. If you think I've missed any important tags, as always please let me know :)

[trulyunholy]

no in-between | part two

matt murdock x reader, college au

notes: 18+, minors please DNI. reader is written as afab, but it's not specifically stated. no use of y/n. word count: 3.6k

part one here

“Shit, shit, shit.”

“What’s going on with you?” Annie asks when she finds you cursing in the hotel lobby.

“No room, apparently,” you tell her through a frustrated sigh. “Online reservation got fucked up and they don’t have any more vacant rooms.”

“Shit, indeed,” Annie says. “What are you gonna do?”

You sigh deeply again and shrug. “Figure something out, I guess.”

“Do you wanna crash with me?” she offers. “I’m staying with Quin too, but-”

“No, no, that’s alright,” you decline quickly. This trip is already stressing you out, and as much as you love Annie and how close the two of you have become over the past few months, staying even a night with her and her girlfriend sounded like hell. “I’ll figure this out. But thanks.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” she says. And then she’s off again, flouncing up the stairs toward her room to do whatever it is she does to get ready for the rest of her day.

You sink down into one of the lobby chairs and bury your face in your hands, allowing yourself a moment of self-pity. But it’s quickly interrupted when someone politely clears their throat next to you.

“Oh, shit, uh, I mean- Dr. Murdock. Hi,” you stutter, a mixture of embarrassment and surprise in your voice.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he says politely. “You’re out a room?”

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Then, a little too quickly, you add, “But, I mean, it’s not a big deal. I can just, like, sleep in the lobby or something. Maybe they’ll make an exception for me since they screwed up.”

Your attempt at a joke falls flat. But the way he says your name then, followed by a humorless laugh, like you going without a bed was the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard of, well, it tightens something in your chest.

“You aren’t sleeping in the lobby,” he tells you. “And it’s unlikely you’ll find any other hotels nearby with vacancies. Turns out this conference has most places pretty booked up.” Then, only seconds later, he holds a plastic card out toward you. “Just take mine.”

“I, uh-” You laugh uncomfortably, thinking maybe it’s a joke. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” he tells you, matter-of-factly.

You feel frozen in place. You don’t want to be rude and turn down the more-than-generous offer that Dr. Murdock has no obligation to make, but you can’t possibly accept it. Besides, wouldn’t it be inappropriate? You aren’t sure where the line fell on that, but it feels blurry at best.

“But where would you stay?” you ask solemnly. “If I take your room, I mean, where would you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he answers, flashing you a smile so hypnotic you couldn’t look away, even if you wanted to. “I’ll figure something out.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” you say, a joking tone contrasting against your racing heart.

“Come on,” he tells you, slipping the door key back in his coat pocket and starting toward the front doors of the hotel. “We can argue about this on the way to the conference.”

The first day of the two-day conference is…uneventful. Okay, it’s boring. But it’s not like you can skip, and you have to admit that several of the presentations did give you solid ideas for your own thesis project. But after several hours of speakers and polite conversations with acquaintances and scholarly strangers alike, you’re ready for the day to be over.  As luck would have it, you run into Dr. Murdock in the hotel lobby, both of you arriving at nearly the same time. Unfortunately, he’d won the argument earlier, and you’d agreed to take his room. But now, standing in front of the door to his hotel room, you’re hesitant again.

“I still don’t feel good about this,” you tell him as he holds the key card toward you expectantly. You take it. “But thank you.”

You wait for him to say something, to say goodbye, anything. But he doesn’t. When you don’t say anything either, he clears his throat.

“My, uh- my suitcase is still-”

“Oh, right!” You feel like an idiot. “Sorry.”

You unlock the door and step inside, taking in the room. It looks just like every other hotel room you’ve stayed in, with a decent sized bed and a television perched on top of a chest of drawers. There’s a desk pushed against the wall with an office chair in front of it, and a small couch opposite the bed.

It gives you an idea.

“Okay, this may be strange, but hear me out. What if I sleep on the couch?” you ask before you can think better of it.

He steps in behind you and shuts the door. He doesn’t immediately answer you, so you quickly continue.

“I can sleep on the couch and then you’ll still have a bed! I- I know it’s not ideal. Hell, I know it probably isn’t exactly appropriate. But it won’t be weird, I swear. Or, maybe it will be, but it doesn’t have to be.”

You hate the way you ramble when you’re nervous, and you hate that you’re always doing it in front of Dr. Murdock. His face remains unreadable, so you take a deep breath and start again.

Look, I don’t like the idea of sleeping in the lobby or a broom closet somewhere, but I don’t like the idea of you having to, either. Especially since you’re, y’know…”

“Blind?” he suggests with a smirk.

“Well, yes,” you admit sheepishly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “But there’s a perfectly good couch here, and there’s no reason either of us should go without if we don’t have to.”

Silence again. More than anything, you wish you could just read his mind, know what he’s thinking.

“It really is a win-win right?” you add in as a last-ditch effort to convince him. “I’ll stay on the couch, I’ll stay out of your way. And I’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”

What is wrong with you? This is such a bad idea, and he’s probably going to admonish you, tell you how inappropriate the mere suggestion of it is, that he’s going to have to report this. You’d probably deserve it, too.

“Alright,” he finally says hesitantly, to your surprise. “But you can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“What? No-” you begin to protest, but he raises a hand to stop you.

“You can have the bed,” he repeats, slower this time, “and I’ll take the couch.”

It’s not up for discussion, you realize. You nod your head, say okay, and move to put your bag on the bed. As you begin to unpack, you remember another awkward aspect of room-sharing.

“Is, uh, is it alright if I take a shower?”

You aren’t sure why you feel a little embarrassed asking. Taking a shower isn’t anything intimate, and there would be walls and a door with a lock between the two of you. No chance for accidental slip-ups. Still, the thought of him being in the next room while you were in such a vulnerable state, well, it’s enough to send something icy through your body that you know a hot shower won’t wash away.

“All yours,” he says, not turning toward you as he shuffles through his own suitcase.

“Thanks,” you say, hurrying to the bathroom. “Promise I’ll be quick.”

You think he says something else, but it’s lost behind the heavy click of the bathroom door.

You aren’t sure why your heart is racing again as you adjust the knob in the shower, trying to figure out which way to turn the damn thing to get the water to a decent temperature. Well, that’s not quite true. You know exactly why it’s racing. It’s racing because you’re sharing a room with Dr. Murdock. Because he’s only feet away from you as you kick off your uncomfortable heels and slip out of your dress. Because you know that tonight you’re going to see your professor -your kind, helpful, smart, stupidly attractive professor- in a very less than professional setting.

God, what are you doing?

Why did you agree to this? As you step into the shower and struggle to find comfort in the low water pressure, you can’t help but think about how much better sleeping in the lobby or a broom closet or literally anywhere else would be.

Well, maybe not better. But it would avoid a situation that could so easily ruin things. The way it could make these ridiculous and stupid and inappropriate feelings you’ve already formed so much worse. But what else were you supposed to do? It’s the logical choice. And he agreed to it.

But you suggested it.

You push down the thought as you make quick work of washing your hair and ignoring the temptation of easing the uncomfortable pressure building up inside of you. By the time you’re done and dressed in your pajamas, no more than twenty minutes have passed. You aren’t sure you’ve ever gotten ready for bed so quickly in your life.

“All done,” you say cheerfully as you step out of the bathroom, leftover steam rolling out of the door behind you. “Bathroom’s free if you…need it.

“Great,” he says, shooting you a comfortable smile that almost feels forced. Like a mask. One of politeness, of tense togetherness. You wonder if you’re wearing the same one. “I hope you didn’t rush.”

“No, no,” you say with a tense chuckle. “Just, uh, exhausted. Ready for bed.”

He nods, and without another word, he’s gone, the bathroom door closing softly behind him.

You sit on the bed for no more than a minute before you start devising a plan. There’s no way you’re letting him sleep on this couch. For one, it’s insanely small, and you’re significantly shorter than he is, so it only makes sense. Also, you can’t, in good conscience, let your professor, your senior, sleep on that tiny couch while you, his student, take up the entire queen sized bed yourself. It just wouldn’t be fair. And since this whole situation was your idea in the first place, you feel you have to get the short stick. You can’t justify this whole thing to yourself otherwise.

So you quickly grab a couple pillows off of the bed and an extra blanket from the closet, and you make yourself as comfortable as possible on the couch, your legs curled closer to your stomach than is strictly comfortable, but you manage. If you can fall asleep here before he gets out of the bathroom, you figure he’ll just let you sleep and take the bed. He couldn’t argue with you that way. Another win in your book.

At first you’re worried that you’ll have a hard time falling asleep. You always have trouble sleeping away from home, away from your own bed with your own pillows and blankets and your little sound machine that you forgot to pack for the trip. But you’re exhausted. From the plane this morning, from the long day, from the hours and hours you spent before the trip preparing for this conference. And as you lay in the dark, listening to the rain against the building and the thunder growing more distant, and as you hear the fall of water as the shower is turned on again, you finally drift off to sleep.

When you wake up, you aren’t sure why. Maybe it’s the thunder that moved closer while you slept. Maybe it was your full bladder from all of the water you nervously kept drinking to keep your hands busy at the conference hall. Maybe it was just how uncomfortable this damn couch was. Whatever the reason, you’re awake now, and you take the opportunity to get up and stretch and take a quick trip to the bathroom.

You’re careful to be as quiet as you possibly can, even washing your hands under the smallest stream of water you can manage to get out of the sink. But by the time you crack open the bathroom door, you see him in the light that spills out, sitting up in the bed and rubbing his face.

“Shit,” you whisper, even though there’s no real need to whisper. You’re both up now. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry, I tried to be quiet.”

“I’m a light sleeper,” is all he says. His voice, though, doesn’t sound like he was sleeping. It sounds clear, alert. Much different from your still-groggy voice. You wonder if he always wakes up so alert.

“I’m sorry,” you offer again, voice still quiet.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Which makes sense. What is there to say? But you move from the bathroom back toward the couch, and click on the lamp on the coffee table next to you. The room wasn’t huge by any means. But there’s enough distance between the two of you that it doesn’t feel as awkward as you were afraid it would. 

What is awkward, though, is the silence. The air is tense while you stand by the coffee table and he sits resting against the headboard, looking completely lost in thought. You take the opportunity to look him over, taking in his slept-in appearance. The comforter is pulled up to his waist, but you admire the light t-shirt he’s wearing, so different from his usual professional attire. You take in his shoulders, his arms, and stare at him in the soft lamp light longer than necessary. You’re completely startled when he finally speaks up.

“Why did you take the couch?’ he asks, his voice soft but his tone serious. “I told you-”

“I couldn’t take the bed,” you start, defensively. “You’re my professor, and my superior, and you’re blind, for god's sake. What kind of person would I be if I let you sleep on this couch when you paid for the room? Especially because that thing is so damn uncomfortable.” You rub your back dramatically as if to prove a point, but a genuine stretch and groan follows.

He goes silent again. You don’t think you've ever seen him so quiet. You aren’t sure if it’s the night, or if it’s the situation, or maybe both. But you would give anything to be in his head right now. To know what he’s thinking, what he’s contemplating, what’s taking up so much of his mind.

“Sleep on the bed,” he says, and there’s no hint of a question in his voice. As if he’s worried that the demand was too harsh, he adds a soft, “Please.”

“You can’t sleep-”

“I won’t sleep on the couch,” he says, beating you to your own tired argument.

“What, are you going to sleep on the floor?” you bite back. You’re tired. It’s late, you couldn’t have been asleep long, it’s still dark outside, and you wish he would just give in and let you win this one.

“No, I-“ he cuts himself short, seeming unsure for just a moment before regaining his composure. “This bed is more than big enough for two people,” he says, voice level. “It’s big enough that two people could sleep on it without…being in each other's way.”

Oh. He’s suggesting…that. He’s actually suggesting that the two of you share a bed. 

He wants to share a bed. With you. 

No, that’s not right. 

With you? No, of course it’s not like that, you tell yourself. He’s just being diplomatic. It’s an easy solution to come to, just like you suggesting the couch. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. 

But if anyone finds out that you shared a bed with your professor., even if it was nothing like it sounded, well, it could be disastrous. For both of you.

But the bed looks warm, and inviting, and a thousand times better than the scratchy extra blanket and that uncomfortable couch. And he’s right, there’s more than enough room for you to each sleep on one side with plenty of space in the middle. There won’t be any risk of…anything. You stop yourself immediately from thinking about what that anything could be and take a deep breath.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it, of course. I understand that it isn’t exactly appropriate and if you’re uncomfortable, forget I even suggested it. But…” He lets the word linger in the air, and it’s so full of possibilities, of actions and consequences and everything in between, and your chest starts to feel tight again. “It’s a win-win. Right?”

“What if someone finds out?” 

The question is out of your mouth before you even realize what you’re saying, and you wish you could take it back. It makes it sound like you’re insinuating that something could happen, when that isn’t a possibility at all, of course it isn’t, because he’s professional and smart and kind, and you’re…well, you.

Luckily he doesn’t give you much time to spiral.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

You know it’s meant as a joke, as a tongue-in-cheek, let’s make light of an awkward situation, kind of thing. But…maybe it’s the hushed tone he’s still speaking, or the soft yellow light casting shadows in just the right way, or his soft t-shirt and his disheveled hair and his arms and my god those arms.

It’s almost like he notices your reaction; maybe he hears the way your breath catches, or maybe your heart is beating so loudly he could hear it out of your chest and across the room. It sure as hell feels like it’s pounding loud and fast enough for that to be possible. But he tenses up too, just a bit. Just enough to be noticeable under your admiringly sharp stare.

“We both need the rest,” he adds, voice much calmer than his appearance would suggest. It sounds practiced, measured. “You won’t get any rest on that couch, and I won’t be able to sleep knowing that you’re miserable on it. Besides, I’ll be gone before you wake up.”

It’s meant to reassure you. Or maybe to throw your words back at you to lighten the mood, to try to show that things aren’t as tense as they clearly were. But you swallow it down and force a pathetic smile onto your face and into your voice.

“There’s enough pillows here to make a barrier between us,” you say, trying out a joke to lighten things on your end, too. He chuckles and shakes his head and the tension does melt away a little. “I am exhausted. And you’re right, I won’t get any sleep on that poor excuse for a couch,” you say. “Just…as long as you’re sure it’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” he says, and, almost immediately, throws the comforter back, settles himself back in bed, and turns to his side to face the wall. To face away from you.

Without another word, you flip the lamp off and carefully make your way to the bed. You go slowly to avoid tripping or hitting your foot like you’re prone to do, but also to delay the inevitable disappointment that being so close to him will undoubtedly bring. Once you get into the bed though, you swear it’s the most comfortable bed you’ve ever laid in, and the sheets are so warm. And the rain hitting rhythmically against the window reminds you of your sound machine that you left at home, and your exhaustion washes over you and weighs down your eyelids once more.

“Thank you,” you mumble a few moments later before drifting off.

When you open your eyes, the room is flooded with gray morning light. The rain stopped overnight but you can tell from your view through the window that it could start up again at any moment. You’re so warm under the thick comforter and the thought of having to get up makes you groan out loud. You have to admit, you haven’t slept this well in a long time. As the sleep dissipates from your brain, you remember where you are and the situation that transpired the night before. You feel a coil of anticipation growing tight in your stomach, but when you turn around and shuffle to sit up, you see the bed is empty.

You aren’t sure what you were expecting. He told you he’d be gone by the time you woke up. So why does disappointment grow in your stomach and snake through your veins?  You pull the comforter up across your chest and grant yourself a few seconds to sit in that disappointment. Would it have been worse if he had been there when you woke up? Would what seemed so simple in the soft lamp light last night be more complex, more uncomfortable in the gray light of the overcast morning? You aren’t sure.

But you don’t have much time to think about it now anyway. You have to get up and get ready for the busy day ahead of you. With one more stretch and a deep breath that leaves you ignoring the fact that the sheets smell like him, you force yourself out of bed and toward the bathroom.

You wonder if you’ll find any evidence of his daily life in the hotel bathroom, toothpaste or body wash maybe. You can’t help but think about what his domestic life is like. What it could look like and where you could fit into it. Would you ever be able to fit into the life of a man like him?

No. Of course you couldn’t. And you should really stop thinking about things like that, you tell yourself.

The bathroom is totally clean, stocked with fresh towels and all. You tell yourself that the feeling tugging at your stomach again is nothing more than a need to eat breakfast.

[kkanabel]

caffeine addiction - chapter 11

Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Coffee Shop! + Fashion? AU

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

words: ~2.8k

One espresso shot at a time turned into three shots of espresso at a time, but it was all being downed by you. Both you and Bakugou were currently in the back room of the Kindeki store next door for your daily work after your shift at the coffee shop, which Bakugou had to hire more employees for. The coffee shop was currently bustling– next door was loud and filled with chatter of something along the lines of “When will they be back?”

The cork boards on the walls were covered from top to bottom in a spread of photos of Gothic Architecture– rib vaults, flying buttresses, and elaborate tracery all framing stained glass windows. Papers with designs, patterns, and sketches were sprawled all over the mahogany desks. A couple of these papers had coffee stains on them. Bakugou leaned back in his chair with a sigh, flinching when the pencil tucked behind his ear fell behind him onto the polished marble ground with a thunk. You drank the last of your iced espresso shot before picking up the fallen pencil and placing your sketchpad onto Bakugou’s brown corduroy-clad lap. 

Bakugou in his zone was truly something to admire. He wore blue light glasses when researching online to reduce strain in his eyes, but did they suit him well. It was a blessing to see him in these moments– all focused while sketching up a storm– pencil lead all over his fingers from blending the graphite onto the paper. “Dramatic, but not overwhelming…” He’d mutter while taking a picture from the cork board and using it as a reference for a pair of pants. Each stroke of his pencil was so easy and well-practiced, making it look easy. He could transform something from his mind onto paper and then fabric like it was made for him– and it was. Red eyes narrowed in on a small imperfection on the paper, and it would disappear like it never existed. 

The entire day was filled with espresso shot after the other– and after that were your brainstorming sessions with Bakugou. Deep plums and jewel tones paired with blacks and grays offset with metallics filled the room along with intricate lace that you spent days designing yourself. The room was filled with a litany of different cloths and fabrics– some stiff and some flowy. Combining luxurious, draping fabrics with strong silhouettes that emphasize shoulders, cinched waists, and long, flowing elements reminiscent of Gothic cathedrals’ towering height with intricate embroidery mimicking Gothic rose windows and lace patterns that resemble wrought-iron gates.

You work on embroidery that mimics the stained glass windows of 12th century cathedrals, ensuring symmetry in the embroidery and a touch of asymmetry in the silhouette to imitate the cathedral as a whole. You’re planning on putting actual pieces of glass onto the dress’ corset later.

You take a step back and stand over the desk, arms crossed, eyeing the latest design Bakugou just sketched out. The jacket’s sharp, angular lines mimic the Gothic arches you’ve been obsessing over for weeks, but something feels off. “It’s too… aggressive,” you say, tilting your head. “We’re going for structured, but this feels like it’s about to stab someone.” “Tch. It’s Gothic. It’s supposed to look like it could stab someone,” Bakugou retorts, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “You said ‘sharp,’ and that’s what you’re getting.” Rolling your eyes, you grab the pencil from his hand and start redrawing the shoulder lines, softening the angles just slightly. “I meant sharp in a stylish way. Not like... this is going to start a fight in the conference room.” Bakugou snorts, watching you make adjustments. “Isn’t that the whole point of fashion? Making people talk, starting shit?”

You pause for a moment, considering his words. “Okay, maybe. But I want them to talk about how good it looks, not how dangerous it is to wear.” “Some people like danger,” he quips, raising an eyebrow at you with a dangerous smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe you’re just scared to take risks.” “Risks?” You turn to him with a raised brow. “I’m the one embroidering literal stained glass into a dress. If anything, you’re the one playing it safe.” Bakugou leans in a little, his red eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, yeah? I’d say I’m taking a pretty big risk working with someone who can’t even keep up with me.” You backup a little and scoff, ignoring the way your heart clenches at his teasing tone. “Please. I’m doing the hard part here. You just scribble a couple lines and call it a day.” His toothy grin widens, and he nudges the sketchpad toward you. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do the pants, too?”

“Because I’m not trying to show off like you,” you say, pushing the pad back at him. “But if you need my help, just say the word.” Bakugou chuckles lowly. “Help? You wish. You just wanna see me sweat.” His eyes flit down to your lower face for a split second. You blink, not catching the double meaning in his words. “What? No, I just… ugh, whatever. Just finish the damn pants.” You check a nearby mirror to make sure you don’t have anything in your teeth– why was he looking there? He leans back, folding his arms behind his head, watching as you turn back to your embroidery. “You’re cute when you get all flustered.” “Flustered?” you mutter, not really paying attention. “I’m not flustered. I’m just trying to fix your mess.”

Bakugou chuckles again, the sound low and teasing. “Whatever you say, princess.” You pause but brush it off, assuming he’s just being his usual cocky self. “Just focus, Bakugou. I don’t want to be stuck here all night.” He smirks to himself, watching you concentrate on the embroidery, completely oblivious to the small ways he’s been trying to get under your skin. “Yeah, yeah. But don’t worry—you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Rolling your eyes, you get back to work at your station. Your fingers glide over luxurious fabric, testing the weight, the drape. The wool you chose for the structured blazer clings to your fingertips, sturdy yet pliant under your touch. "It's still missing something," you mumble, tracing a pattern you’ve yet to commit to paper. Beside you, Bakugou furrows his brow, lost in his sketchbook, muttering half-formed ideas. The soft scratch of his pencil across the page fills the air, almost rhythmic, like a second heartbeat in the room. “Do you think we need a stronger contrast here?” you ask, holding up a swatch of deep plum silk next to the black jacquard fabric that’s been frustrating you all day.

He glances up, blue light glasses sliding down his nose. “It’ll look washed out. Try a metallics to bring out the color,” he suggests, eyes flicking back down to his sketch without waiting for a response. It’s so casual, so assured. He doesn’t doubt himself—not for a second—and the way his hands move from sketch to reference, it’s infuriating how easily his mind works through these problems.

Meanwhile, your sketchbook is a mess of crossed-out lines and question marks, drafts discarded before they even make it to the final page. You flip through your notes, eyeing the reference photos pinned to the corkboard. Flying buttresses and towering arches loom in the background, begging to be translated into the clean lines of a suit or a dress.

“I think I’ve got it.” You grab your sketchpad, pulling it back onto your lap. Sharp, structured lines—just like pointed arches—make their way onto the page. Your pencil flies, inspired. “This! Like pointed arches! Sharp, structured, but with curves!” you exclaim, waving the sketch in Bakugou’s direction.

He stops long enough to glance over. “Not bad,” he grunts, but his fingers twitch toward your sketchpad. “Let me fix the angle here. And you need a stronger taper at the waist.” Before you can protest, he’s taken your design and made a few deft adjustments that somehow elevate the whole thing.

You watch in begrudging admiration as he perfects it effortlessly. Each stroke of his pencil adds depth, structure—it's flawless, and somehow, irritatingly so. There’s no denying it: Bakugou was born to do this. 

You bite back the jealousy that nags at you, pushing yourself to sketch with renewed vigor. The stakes are high, and you’re not about to let him outshine you. Not when this collection—the fusion of Gothic splendor and cutting-edge business fashion—is yours just as much as his. 

Your hand flies across the pages, the scratches of the pencil against paper mixed with the trills of music sung in Middle English to truly encapsulate the feeling of the medieval architecture you were emulating on paper. 

Your hand cramps as you set the pencil down, finally satisfied with the latest design. The blazer dress, now meticulously sketched out with pointed arches forming elegant, sharp lapels, lies sprawled on the desk between the two of you. Bakugou leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, surveying his sketches with a critical eye.

“Looks like we’ve nailed the structure,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, which has grown messy from hours of working in silence. You nod, rubbing at your temples, the espresso shots from earlier starting to wear off. Just as you’re about to suggest a break, Bakugou’s phone lights up on the desk, buzzing incessantly. At first, he ignores it—he's been too immersed in perfecting the collection to care about any distractions. But the buzzing doesn't stop.

He frowns, picking up the phone. You can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that something’s up.

“What is it?” you ask, stretching your arms over your head.

“Tch. It’s my mom.” Bakugou’s expression shifts from mild annoyance to a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he scans through the string of notifications. He scrolls for a moment, and then his phone buzzes again, this time with a notification from the Masaki store’s account.

He glances up at you, his red eyes sharp. “Check your phone.”

A sense of unease curls in your stomach as you reach for your own device. The moment you unlock it, you see it—another flood of Instagram notifications, messages, and emails. All your social media apps are practically screaming for your attention. You swipe to your email, eyes widening as you scroll through the dozens—no, thousands—of pre-order confirmations. The Kindeki PR team has emailed you countless times– along with dozens of journalists asking for an interview.

“What the hell…” you whisper under your breath.

The notifications are relentless, and when you switch to Instagram, you finally understand. The Masaki Official account has posted the photo—the one from the café. The picture of you and Bakugou, mid-laugh, caught in a candid moment of camaraderie and partnership and… something else. The caption is simple but effective: “Fashion royalty at work. Coming soon: Masa x Kin x Deki collection.”

Your jaw drops as you read the comments beneath the photo.

“CUTEST COUPLE”

“fashion royalty fr… they a couple tho??”

“take all my money NOW.”

You scroll down further, but the app glitches momentarily, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of activity. Your phone buzzes again, but it’s Bakugou who breaks the silence first, reading from an email: “Sales are up by 65%. Pre-orders are through the roof.” You look up at him, wide-eyed, but he’s already dialing his mom. “Oi, what the hell did you post?” From behind you, another notification dings: Kindeki (aka your precious aunt) has just uploaded a behind-the-scenes video on the store’s Instagram. In the background, you hear a familiar cackle from Bakugou’s mom. You glance over at Bakugou, who catches your expression with an eye roll. “Looks like we’re not done yet.”

The clang of the last chair being stacked on the table echoed through the empty café, a quiet contrast to the buzzing streetlights outside. The Kindeki shop was already locked, but you followed Bakugou to his café to close. You yawned, rubbing your eyes as you pulled down the metal shutter halfway. The day had been long—filled with both customers and creativity. Bakugou was wiping down the counter, his movements deliberate, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. The quiet was almost comforting after the frenzy of the day. “I’ll lock up,” Bakugou grunted, grabbing the keys from the hook. You nodded, moving to flip off the last few lights when suddenly, the distinct murmur of voices outside the window grew louder. You froze, glancing toward the front of the café. You swore you saw a flash of light from outside the shop for a split second.

“Bakugou… what’s that?” you asked cautiously, squinting through the glass door. He moved past you, standing close enough for you to catch the heat radiating off him as he squinted out into the street. A low grunt rumbled in his throat, and you followed his gaze. Outside, you could see them—reporters, camera flashes lighting up the dusk, a couple of people holding phones up, trying to capture any glimpse of movement inside. The soft murmur had turned into a low buzz of voices and questions being thrown into the air. “Great,” you muttered, “exactly what we need.” “Tch, of course they’d show up now.” Bakugou rolled his eyes, glaring at the crowd. “Stupid vultures.” He crossed his arms, muscles tensing as he glanced over at you. “Stay behind me.” He moved toward the door, his hand clenching around the keyring in his palm, eyes narrowed like he was already considering breaking some cameras. “Are we seriously doing this?” you asked, following him but keeping a slight distance. The last thing you wanted was your face on a hundred Instagram stories and all over news articles.

Bakugou glanced over his shoulder, his lips curving into a smirk. “What, scared of a little attention? You’re the one who wanted to be in fashion, remember?” You rolled your eyes, biting back a retort as he unlocked the door just enough to speak through the crack. “Shop’s closed,” he barked at the crowd, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Bakugou! Are you and her working on a new line together?” “What’s the inspiration for the upcoming season?” “Any truth to the rumors about your relationship?” You winced at the last question. Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “Back off,” he growled. “Get a damn life.” He slammed the door shut, locking it in one swift motion before turning to you. “We’re getting out of here.” You blinked. “And how, exactly, are we going to do that? They’re right outside.” His smirk widened, mischief dancing in his crimson eyes. “There’s two back exits, genius. You think I don’t plan for this kinda crap?”

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you along. The café lights dimmed behind you as he led you through the narrow hallway toward the back door. The sound of your footsteps echoed softly, mingling with the faint buzz of reporters still stationed outside. Once outside, Bakugou paused, glancing around before pulling you along again. The back alley was empty, the cool night air brushing against your skin as the two of you hurried through the narrow path. The distant hum of the city faded slightly, replaced by the more familiar sounds of your breathing and Bakugou’s muttered complaints about the reporters. You exhaled in relief as you made it a few blocks away, the noise fading. “Guess we’re a hot topic now, huh?” Bakugou’s voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of pride in it. You shot him a look, shaking your head. “I didn’t sign up for this level of attention.” He shrugged, smirking as he crossed his arms. “Too late, princess. Fame comes with a price.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he added, “You better get used to it.”

You were about to retort when you felt the heat of his gaze settle on you, a little too heavy, a little too intense. He took a step closer, just enough for you to notice the way his eyes lingered on yours, something unreadable in them. Before you could say anything, he dropped the teasing smirk and muttered, “I’ll protect you from those vultures. Grew up with it. But don’t expect me to be this nice all the time.” You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. He turned and started walking ahead before you could respond, leaving you standing there, heart fluttering slightly as you tried to make sense of the tension in the air. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder, “we’ve got work to do tomorrow.” And just like that, the moment was gone, leaving you wondering how Bakugou could make your heart race with just a few words. As the two of you walked side by side, the city lights flickering above, you couldn’t help but glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong.

i had a looooot of trouble with writing this chapter bc describing clothing aint my best suit, but we're workin on it (thats why im writing this fic in the first place tbh) :> also, my taglist is open! thank you to @itztaki for being the first LOL-- just message me or comment on this if you'd like to be added!

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨ Taglist: @itztaki

[b1ackoutartist]

Instagram

The golden hue of late afternoon sunlight washed over Natasha Romanoff's office, casting long, painterly shadows across the minimalist decor. Reclining in her chair, a steaming cup of black coffee on her desk, she found herself staring at the spectacular view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows, her mind far away from the multi-million-dollar deals and the corporation she had built from scratch.

Her fingers tapped absentmindedly on the surface of her phone, pulling up Instagram—a habit she found hard to break. As she flicked through the familiar reel of influencers, old friends, and the occasional business associate, her eyes fell on a story posted by y/n, a sight as rare as a blue moon.

A strange lurching sensation filled her chest. Y/n was always the more private one, rarely sharing anything about her life online. The sight of her Instagram name brought back a flood of memories, making her heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

Two years had passed since their painful break-up, but Natasha had never stopped missing her. It was as if Y/n had left an imprint in her heart, one she couldn't fill, no matter how hard she tried.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha tapped on the picture. It loaded, a photograph slowly materializing. In the center, Y/n stood, her hair cascading down her shoulders, eyes twinkling with warmth and love as she looked at the child on her hip. Her white t-shirt, slightly rumpled from where the child clung to it, made her look casual, comfortable, and—Natasha swallowed hard—endearingly maternal.

The little boy, his cherubic face radiant with a joyful smile, was a captivating sight. He had a mop of messy hair, so much like Y/n's, and his eyes—big, bright, and a perfect shade of green—were eerily similar to Natasha's. His tiny hand clutched onto Y/n's t-shirt, the other reaching out, as if yearning for something—or someone—just out of the frame. His baby teeth were displayed in an endearing, wide grin, so full of happiness that it made Natasha's heartache.

Just then, her intercom beeped, breaking her from her trance. It was her assistant, sounding slightly frantic, reminding her of the imminent conference call.

“Natasha?” the assistant’s voice came again, full of nervous trepidation.

“Yeah, I'm coming,” Natasha responded, tearing her eyes away from the image that had drawn her into a vortex of emotions she thought she had forgotten.

As she stood up to stride towards the conference room, she prayed that the pain in her heart will disappear soon, not being able to go through this again.

[bangtanhoneys]

Bangtan Baby: DIY Man

If Yoongi was going to be completely honest, he had been saving ideas for the nursery ever since Grace had announced her pregnancy to the team. He had gone into complete baby mode, which was a surprise to even him, and his phone had been filled with photos of what he could do for the nursery. Or nurseries since a mini one would be made up at HYBE for the future arrival. 

And while he could pay the money and hire professionals, he didn’t install bidets back at the old dorm for nothing and he wasn’t known at the time as the BTS DIY man for any old reason. Hence the reason Grace found herself one afternoon, sitting in one of the many conference rooms at HYBE with a table full of snacks and catalogs and one of the big screens turned on and connected to Yoongi’s laptop. 

Obviously he had taken his role very seriously. 

“So, what are you thinking about for the theme?” Yoongi asked, typing into the Naver search bar the keywords ‘baby furniture’ and seeing what popped up. It wasn’t like they could take a wander down into town without causing a media frenzy. 

“I’m thinking maybe a moon theme.”

Yoongi snorted at the response, glancing over to the woman at the table who was currently divulging in her current craving: chocolate biscuits. 

“Of course you are. So I’m guessing neutral, clouds, a moon spinning thing, white furniture?” Yoongi asked, clicking through the various links that were provided by the search. One website offering matching furniture sets of the baby crib, changing table, wardrobe and even a rocking chair. 

“Pretty much, I’ve got some bits already like the mobile which has a whale on it,” Grace flicked through her phone to find the product in question which she sent to Yoongi’s phone.

“Okay that’s adorable.”

Grace grinned at the gummy smile on Yoongi’s face and broke off half of her biscuit, handing it over to the man who was her brother in everything but blood and who would be her closest confidant during her pregnancy.  

“You know I’m putting this all together right? I’m not letting Namjoon or Jin-hyung anywhere near the furniture. I’ve seen them try to put together a bookcase or whatever it was,” Yoongi referred to that one RUN!BTS episode. “Baby Bangtan will be secure in what I’m putting together.”

“Just don’t put a crib in your studio because I don’t want my baby listening to you shout shibal every five seconds,” Grace paused and glanced at the man in question who was busy adding things to the online shopping cart. “Yoongi, don’t you dare.”

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Pizzicato

Chapter Nineteen

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela, Dean/Cas (unrequited)

Other characters: Miriam Talbot (OFC Bela's mother)

Word Count: 2567

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, putting out other people's fires, and old baggage, unbeta'd

A/N: Castiel and Trouble's friendship is something I didn't realize she had been missing until he was in front of her. There are a couple of big truth bombs in this chapter and I hope I handled them respectfully. This is an AU and it is not indicative of this author's feelings on canon or any other fandom shipping practices.

Series Masterlist

Posting on Dean’s instagram account was par for the course as the band’s publicist. You bothered to know what a hashtag was, for one. For another it also allowed you to check traffic on posts and actively moderate things to help the comment section look best for Dean’s image. Afterall, Dean trusted you, you weren’t going to leak anything or make him look like an idiot.

You were a goddamn professional and this wasn’t the hardest thing you’d done in the last year, but Jesus fuck were you pissed.

Dean hated tattoos. Really, he hated needles. He was black out drunk when he and Sam got their matching flaming pentagrams. He actually had a panic attack the next morning after realizing he let someone “sew ink” into his skin. By sheer force of will and through the bond of shared grief, you got him to go with you for Jo’s memorial tattoo on the tenth anniversary of her death. It was in your all-time top five ultimate Dean-Y/N memories.

And now it meant jack shit.

You edited and cropped the photos, sent two back to Bela to post on her account and then posted the lion’s share onto Dean’s, making him look like the diligent boyfriend while Bela was busy in the chair. You thanked Billie for taking care of “his girl” and made sure the shop was the location and tagged. You wanted to punch something, it looked so good. Then you sat back and let the interwebs do its job.

Okay, in actuality, you emailed about twenty different people, had a conference call with the tour management marketing team, scheduled radio station drop ins and followed up with Meg on the expected release of Dean’s photoshoot and interview. These days it may just end up online, but you hoped she was able to score him real physical print space.

It was just as you were winding down for the night, when your phone rang. It was past any reasonable business hours and you were already done with your skin care routine, but then you saw the caller id.

“Miriam! Hi!” You tried to sound pleasantly surprised.

“Don’t Miriam me, young lady. What is going on out there? Is it drugs? I thought we missed this stage when she quit acting for college. You’d tell me if this hoodlum was pressuring her into risky behavior wouldn’t you?”

Which was a lot to unpack right off the bat like that, luckily you had experience dealing with Bela’s mother.

“It’s just a tattoo. She’s not on drugs, I promise.”

“And what about this Dean? I knew they were seeing each other, but this seemed a bit more intimate— not exactly in the public eye.”

Oh, she was good.

“He’s not on drugs either. And—- he actually isn’t thrilled with tattoos. This might be all Bela, if I’m being honest.”

“Have you seen the things they’re saying? The things they’re calling her, Y/N?”

You rolled your eyes and heaved yourself out of bed, you needed your laptop if you were going to continue this conversation rationally. 

“Let me look into it— what site were you on?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Olivette, one of the boardmember’s wives, told me she read about it online during dinner.”

You inhaled deeply and started your usual rotation of sites, you’d have to add some new tags to follow Bela’s buzz more closely going forward. 

“And you’re sure this wasn’t just bad blood from Olivia? I’m not finding much besides general surprise.”

“It’s Olivette. And yes, I’m certain. She wouldn’t make me worry without a reason.”

And then you realized what you were missing, it wasn’t just People or TMZ you had to worry about. You went to Hello!’s twitter and you found what had Miriam Talbot’s friend in a huff. 

You started scanning the comments, gathering the most common complaints and judging their amount of influence via cursory glances. You did not know a lot of the news personalities or celebrity bloggers in the UK. You were going to have to meet with Bela and figure out a better approach going forward.

“Okay, Miriam, it’s almost eleven here. I know you probably called me as soon as you woke up, but consider me on the case. Alright? Bela’s fine and this is just a minor hiccup.”

“If you’re sure, Y/N, dear.”

You sighed. “Of course. I would warn you if there was anything to worry about. But please just let this run its course. You know how the tabloids are.”

“Unfortunately I do, that’s why I called. Please keep me updated if anything else comes up?”

“Will do. You have a good ni-day!”

“Goodnight dear— and thank you.”

You smiled at your lap. “Anytime.”

You let her hang up. Then you promptly pulled up your contacts list and warned Bela that her mother was sniffing about online and to call her at a decent hour. And finally, you spent the next four hours (or so) online until you had swam to the bottom of the cesspool and decided it wasn’t worth your time. At least not right then, not so exhausted.

Three days passed since the snobby UK gossip rags’ judgment rained down and, as expected, it had already just about fizzled out. You sat in a cafe with a quad shot flat white, waiting for your lunch date to arrive. Not truly a date, though it wasn’t a meeting either.

It was a diplomatic mission.

Then you spotted him and your stomach swooped, feeling the loss of his presence in your life all over again.

“Hey, Cas.” You stood and held your arms open for a hug, which he accepted with a timid smile.

“It’s good to see you, Trouble,” his gravelly voice murmured in your ear. He still smelled the same.

You pulled back and looked him in the eye, searching for anything but the sincere blue reality in front of you. He held no grudges, not with you, without even discussing it you knew he was still your friend. 

You then punched him squarely in the shoulder. “That’s for ghosting us all for the last nine months, assbutt!”

He grunted, and rolled his eyes. “I can accept that.”

“Good. Because I missed you. We all miss you.”

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“So— heard you have a kid, huh. That’s —- weird.”

Castiel exhaled and shook his head. “Who told you?”

“What? Nobody. I have eyes. And spend enough time online to draw some conclusions.”

“Kelly told you.”

“She didn’t have to. She’s amazing by the way— are you a thing now, now that you know he exists?”

Castiel looked affronted. “Me and Kelly? Oh, no. That was a teenage mistake. We were young. And we’ve both matured into vastly different people. But I respect her and I think— I hope I’ve earned her trust.”

“Tell me about him—- he’s what? Twenty-twenty one?”

“He’s twenty three and very talented. Kind, impossibly optimistic even.”

“Yikes, tough combo out here.”

“Tell me about it.”

You shared a look and he smiled at you like he knew what you were thinking about. Like you were reliving the same joke.

You blinked away the sting in your eyes.

“Go get your dark roast and get back over here, we’ve got things to discuss.”

His eyes softened, but Cas didn’t argue with you.

You sipped your drink and tried not to let all of the questions that had been building for months run away from you. He was back both too quickly and too slowly. You cleared your throat, the awkwardness you had been fighting back rushed to the surface.

“So— I presume there is more to you calling to get lunch. Not just asking about Jack and goading me about my latest tattoo?” Cas wasn’t one for small talk.

You nodded and swallowed around another perfect mouthful of milk and espresso.

Castiel’s face went through a journey when you didn’t quickly reply. “He doesn’t want to see me—- he made that quite clear.”

“And what about since everything?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know Dean’s called you. He might not have been big enough to actually apologize in a voicemail, but I know he wants to fix things— he misses you as his friend, too.”

“Then he should be able to suck up his pride and make the effort,” Cas snipped, the first sign of the lingering anger from his and Dean’s fight.

“I haven’t exactly seen much of your effort. Do you not want to fix things?--- And I’m not talking about coming back to the band— that ship has sailed. I’m talking about twenty years of friendships you just walked out on.”

Cas stared at his coffee, his eyebrow ring arched with his bitchy expression. He hated being corrected, you knew that. But this had gone on long enough.

“I’ve spoken with everyone but Dean,” Cas explained. “It’s not perfect, but it’s progress.”

“You never spoke to me,” you spat.

Cas’ eyes softened again. “I always knew where your loyalties lie, you took your time, too.”

“Wait— even SAM?!”

“Sam and I haven’t lost contact this whole time.”

You sucked in air. “Oh, he is so dead.”

“Y/N. It wasn’t like we were plotting or anything. He was worried about me, I was worried about Dean.”

“Yeah, but if Dean knew—”

“Ask Sam, but I don’t think he could hide anything from Dean if he wanted to.”

You knew he was right. Ever since Sam got sober, transparency had been something Sam put into his closest relationships anyway. Beside Dean being ruthless and stubborn, well, you supposed Cas was right. 

“Why do I feel like this band just doesn’t want me to be able to do my job?”

“Your position as group therapist is fairly tenuous. Especially with Pamela involved.”

“I meant my real job. If I had known you were on decent terms with, well, everyone but Dean, it would have made things a lot easier, young man.” You couldn’t help but smile now. Sure you were hurt, but the eggshells you had been stepping over for so long really only took up a single corner of the floor.

It was freeing.

“I never meant to cause you any distress.”

“That doesn’t make it go away, Cas.”

He bowed his head, but popped back up to meet your gaze. “I know. I apologize. I didn’t want you to think that I was done— with any of you.”

You pinched your eyes closed quickly and then reached over the table to squeeze his forearm. “Okay. So— you’ll come to Dean’s birthday party, then?”

Cas patted your hand with his left and sat back, breaking the contact and sat with the invitation for a heavy moment.

“What makes you think he’d want me there?”

You glared at him, all tattooed and handsome and absolutely clueless about how much his absence has affected Dean. Sure, Dean got to keep the band, but it wasn’t the same without Cas. Cas has had to start over entirely, become a dad and rebuild his career all without any of the support Dean has had around him through his own troubles.

“Look— I know you’re Mister Independent and I don’t want to set back any of the progress you’ve made without him needing you around. But he still looks for you whenever we all go out. And hanging out with Kevin, made it abundantly clear to him that you were available— you just weren’t interested.”

“Why do you always make it sound like we were an item?”

You rolled your eyes. “Look, we all know Dean has attachment issues. I’m not saying anything was kinky between you guys— that’s not my business. But, as friends, you guys deserve to at least get some answers— closure or forgiveness can come later, if you get there.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that to get me off your case?”

“Yes, really.”

You smirked and Cas’ smiled with his eyes, fidgeting his lip ring with his tongue.

Cas cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee before changing gears. “So, your friend Bela and, uh, Dean?”

You groaned and hid your eyes in your hand. When you looked up he was laughing at you.

“What?!”

“Stop— we both know what it’s all about.”

“Kevin seems to think Dean’s whipped.” Mischief continued to dance in Cas’ eyes.

“Well, it’s about time.”

“I told him, the only one who has had Dean whipped in over a decade is you.”

You choked on your spit, sputtering at Cas’ bluntness.

“They don’t know it’s for show do they?”

You inhaled deeply. “Sam knows. Dean and Bela have their own private agreement about it all. But, uh, yeah, you pretty much guessed right.”

Cas watched you thoughtfully, futzing with his lip ring with his top teeth now. 

“How are you holding up?”

“Me? I’m fine, why?”

Cas nudged your ankle under the table with his combat boot.

“As someone who was definitely in love with him for most of my life— I know the symptoms.”

You sighed and shivered at being seen and having your long held suspicions confirmed. You rubbed your upper arm, trying to fight the goosebumps. “I’m fine. Nothing has changed. He’s just been working on himself and that is— distracting.”

Cas hummed, head cocking to the side as if looking at you with a different angle would give him more insight.

“I mean it. He’s in therapy and everything. Sam and him are working out. He’s been insanely focused on the latest album—”

“He’s doing penance.”

“Maybe. But he wants to be better. It’s not just guilt. I don’t know how to explain it. But, you’ll see what I mean.”

Cas eyebrow popped up again.

“You will,” you insisted.

“You always were able to read me weren’t you?”

You chuckled at the back of your mouth, short and knowing. “Guess it comes with being stuck with each other for so long.”

“Shared trauma response,” Cas teased.

“Or that.”

You finished the last of your drink and looked around the cafe.

“So, where we going to eat? I think we’ve had enough heavy— sushi?”

“You buying?”

“Phantom Traveler is covering this as a business lunch.”

Cas stood and pushed in his chair. “Okay, well then, bring on the seafood.”

You stood and let Cas walk you outside, his hand on the small of your back until he could offer you his elbow on the sidewalk. You smiled up at him and pulled him tight to your side.

“I’m glad you’re back, Cas.”

“Well, we’ll see if everyone agrees with you, won’t we?”

The afternoon passed quickly, catching up and sharing memories that were now tinted with the grief of the last lost year. Things made more sense the longer you thought about how the band had been acting, especially way back at the Animal Shelter where Cas’ niece had been more than willing to put in her two cents. You texted Sam while you waited for your meals, warning him where you were and what you knew.

‘Have fun.’

His only response. Asshole.

But everything kept from you, kept from Dean, wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t. Now you at least could control the narrative a bit more by being in on it all. Or most of it at least.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

Chapter Twenty: Arpeggio

[batsplat]

Former MotoGP winner Marco Melandri has had a pop at reigning world champion Valentino Rossi via his Italian online blog marcomelandri.it. Melandri believes Rossi was fed bespoke tyres by Michelin before the French company were ousted from the MotoGP series after Bridgestone tyres won the sole supplier contract. Moreover, Melandri believes this is the reason Rossi's domination of the series is slowly diminishing: 'This is down to the fact that they don't make tyres anymore just for him,' wrote Melandri. 'This statement is meant to say that maybe Michelin, in 2004, had more than a small hand in the results. More like an arm.' There's more: Melandri goes on to say he believes Lorenzo's 'armchair' celebrations at this year's MotoGP from Le Mans had a more sinister message: 'Taking a closer look at it, you start to see more: the chair was yellow... like Valentino's yellow... which would say: "I, Lorenzo, am taking your place on your yellow chair".' When questioned about the stunt at yesterday's MotoGP press conference, Lorenzo looked puzzled, replying: "But the chair was green."

x

more of the blog entry under the cut

"Lorenzo's celebration was serious stuff, with a subtle yet biting message that only some will pick up on. Did you get it? Let's take a look at it together," Melandri wrote on his official website marcomelandri.it, with his words subsequently translated into English by Italian website GPone.com.

"When I rode by on the cool down lap, I saw Lorenzo sitting in front of the video screen and my first thought was: 'He is enjoying the sight of his own victory.' But noooooo!!!

"Taking a closer look at it, you start to see more: the chair was yellow... like Valentino's yellow... which would say: "I, Lorenzo, am taking your place on your yellow chair."

"Am I sitting down with the popcorn to enjoy my spectacular victory??? No, I am sitting here watching you cross the finish line, because I already passed it..."

Melandri also blasted Rossi for his response to the celebration and comment about the one-tyre rule.

"Valentino's statement: "I did it ten years ago"... Weak... followed by: "Now, with spec tyres, the rider can't make such a difference." This is down to the fact that they don't make tyres anymore just for him," wrote Melandri.

"This statement is meant to say that maybe Michelin, in 2004, had more than a small hand in the results. More like an arm.

"I don't want to say that anyone is right or wrong, but only put forth my theory that aliens don't exist," added the San Carlo Honda Gresini rider, referring to the label applied to MotoGP's present big four of Rossi, Lorenzo, Casey Stoner and Dani Pedrosa.

And Melandri wasn't finished yet. He also gave his opinion on Rossi's 2011 plans and thinks it is simply too dangerous for Rossi to leave Yamaha if Lorenzo stays.

"I really want to see Valentino on the Ducati next year, but I think it is more likely he would go to Formula 1!" he wrote. "Not because the red bikes aren't competitive; I actually think they are much more competitive than you think. It is just hard for him to leave Lorenzo alone on the Yamaha, now that the bike has an incredible balance. It is too, too, too large a risk."

The Italian Grand Prix, the home event for both 2005 title runner-up Melandri and reigning seven time MotoGP champion, starts on Friday.

"In Italy they have a unique way of presenting bike racing to the general public: when Valentino wins and stages a celebration, it is an incredible show. But when others do it, they downplay the whole thing... hmmm!!!" said Melandri.

[eyneyke]

Max's comments

Pairing: Max Verstappen x PewDiePie!sibling Summary: What if Felix had a genius brother who works as a RedBull's engineer and is also secretly dating Max part 10 of A Calm to my Storm Masterlist

As the buzz around Sam Kjellberg continued to rise online, Max Verstappen found himself at the centre of it all. His friends and fans had caught wind of the internet’s obsession with Sam, and Max couldn’t resist the urge to play along.

Video #1: Max at a Press Conference

During a press conference following a recent race, a journalist took the opportunity to bring up the fanfare surrounding Sam.

Journalist: "Max, fans have been commenting on your engineer Sam Kjellberg, saying he’s their new crush. How do you feel about that?"

Max chuckled, leaning back in his chair, a smirk spreading across his face. "Well, I can't blame them. Sam’s a smart guy. He’s got a great mind for engineering and… yeah, I guess he’s pretty fit too." The room filled with laughter, and he raised an eyebrow, leaning into the joke. “I mean, those arms do get a lot of attention, don’t they?”

The journalists chuckled, and Max leaned closer to the microphone, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But seriously, Sam is one of my best friends. We spend a lot of time together discussing race strategies and, you know, fixing my mistakes.” He winked, eliciting more laughter from the room.

---

Video #2: Max's Twitter

Later that week, Max took to his social media, posting a photo of himself in the garage, casually posing with his team. He added a cheeky caption: “Can’t do it without my team… especially not without Sam's biceps helping me out. 💪😉”

The comments section exploded.

Fan 103: “Max is so supportive of Sam’s newfound fame! 😂”

Fan 104: “Is this confirmation that Sam is hot? Because I need more evidence!”

Max grinned, reading through the comments. He added another tweet, this time of him working on the car, saying, “The real MVPs are the engineers—especially the hot ones.” He punctuated it with a wink emoji.

---

Video #3: Max on a Talk Show

On a popular talk show, the host couldn’t resist bringing up the topic as well.

Host: "So, Max, what’s it like having the internet thirsting over your engineer?"

Max laughed, shaking his head. “It’s honestly hilarious. I mean, Sam is just doing his job, but I can’t say I’m surprised people are noticing him. He’s got that ‘I could fix your car and still look good’ vibe going on.”

The audience erupted in laughter, and the host continued, “And what about the rumours of Sam being related to PewDiePie? Is that true?”

Max laughed again, leaning forward. “Oh yeah, Sam is Felix's brother. Great guy. But I’ve heard more stories about him than I dare to repeat!” The audience roared, and Max added with a mischievous grin, “Honestly, I think Felix should be the one watching out. He’d have so much to worry about if I started telling what Sam has told me of when they were kids!”

---

Reddit Reactions

The Reddit threads lit up again as fans dissected Max’s comments, eagerly sharing clips and highlighting his playful demeanour.

---

User 105: “Max is literally the best best friend ever. The way he talks about Sam is too funny! 😂”

User 106: “Did he just call Felix out? I’m cackling. Max really said Sam is the hot one!”

User 107: “I love how nonchalantly he drops that Sam is attractive and that he’s his engineer. Like, can he be any more supportive?”

User 108: “I’m convinced they’re dating, and nobody knows. The vibes are too strong!”

---

Max and Sam’s Private Conversation

Meanwhile, Max and Sam enjoyed their moments together, sometimes discussing the latest clips of Max’s press appearances. One evening, after a race, they lounged on the couch in Max’s apartment, both wrapped in a cosy blanket, laughter filling the air.

Sam: “Did you really say that about my biceps? I mean, come on, man. The internet is going to take that and run with it.”

Max chuckled, pulling Sam closer. “What can I say? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. You’ve got the arms of a greek god, and it’s just a bonus that you’re brilliant at your job.”

Sam rolled his eyes playfully, trying to hide the smile creeping onto his face. “And nobody knows we’re dating? Still? You’re just out here fueling the fire.”

Max grinned, leaning in to kiss Sam softly. “Let them think whatever they want. It’s fun to watch. And hey, it’s not like anyone suspects that the engineer and the driver are more than just friends, right?”

As they cuddled under the blanket, the warmth between them felt electric. Little did the world know that behind the scenes, their relationship was blossoming into something beautiful, far beyond the banter of the internet.

---

Max continued to tease Sam through interviews and social media, knowing that even though the rumours kept flying, they could still enjoy their hidden relationship without the prying eyes of the public. Fans were left in a frenzy, eager for more, completely oblivious to the truth behind the scenes.